


Parallax

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Blink And You'll Miss It) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Art Gallery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Curator Steve, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Pining, Pining Bucky Barnes, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Romantic Gestures, Stucky Big Bang 2016, Top Steve Rogers, photographer bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7903078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is a photographer known for his stunning shots of the city captured on black and white film. But behind his success as an artist is a secret: he ensures that he gets his work hung in galleries by sleeping with the people who run them. Steve Rogers has recently acquired the prestigious Carter Gallery, and Bucky is determined to get his work in. When Steve seems impervious to all of Bucky's advances, however, it becomes a challenge that Bucky can't back down from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parallax

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, my fic for the Stucky Big Bang!!! Art for the fic can be found [here](http://limerenceandscorn.tumblr.com/post/149629895651/for-the-fic-parallax-by-hearteyesmonroe-an), please go support the art with likes and reblogs! (More art pending)

Bucky Barnes loves his job.

He’s been taking photographs since he was seven years old and his mother first handed him a disposable camera and told him to have at it. In middle school he stole her digital camera, and when that gave out when he was fourteen, he spent all his money on a DSLR. After taking a black and white photography class in school, he started developing film on his own in his bathtub. Simply put, it’s been his passion almost since he can remember. He never expected photography to pay well, but he’s done surprisingly well for himself. Of course, that has to do in part with—

“Wait. James. You’ve been doing  _ what? _ ”

“Look, I probably could have told you sooner but I wasn’t really sure how to bring it up.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Um. When did we graduate?”

“James Buchanan Barnes!”

“Was it three years ago?”

He can hear Natasha huff a sigh, her breath crackling over the phone.

“James. I’m not judging you, I just need to know. Are you serious?”

“I am one hundred percent serious, Nat.”

“You’ve been fucking gallery owners. In exchange for gallery space.”

“That is what I said, yes.”

“And you’ve been doing this since the beginning of your career?”

“Nat, I didn’t have a career until I started doing this.”

“Still not judging you.”

“Anyway, what I was getting at is that I need your help.”

“My help.” Natasha’s voice is flat. Not disbelieving, exactly. More dubious than anything.

“Yes. See, I’m trying to get into Carter Gallery—”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“That’s…confident of you.”

“Natasha, I am going to be blunt. I’m extremely good at sucking dick.”

“I’ll just trust you on that one.”

“I need you to help me get in touch with Steve Rogers. He’s a hard man to find.”

“He’s busy, James.”

“Right, exactly, so I need you to help me find a time when he’s  _ not _ busy so I can seduce him and get my art hung in his gallery.”

“You know, James…”

“What?”

“I hear the art’s not the only thing that’s hung.”

“Natasha!” He pauses, contemplating. “Where did you hear that?”

“I have my sources.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I hear heavy breathing. Stop thinking about it before you even know if we can track him down. Or if he’s even gay.”

“I thought you had sources.”

“Yeah, but you don’t. What makes you so sure?”

“Natasha, you’d be amazed at how many of these men will go gay if they know no one else is gonna find out about it.”

A pause as Natasha contemplates what he’s said. “You know…”

“What?”

“This actually does explain a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Mainly how you usually show your art in male-owned galleries. I thought you were just being sexist but I guess if you’re sleeping with the owners to get into most of them…”

“Nat! If you thought I was being sexist why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I’m kidding, you dumbass.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“Thanks, Nat. You’re the best.”

“I’m aware,” she says, and then she hangs up.

He stares down at his phone for a few seconds, huffing out a laugh, before shoving it in his pocket and grabbing a roll of film. He winds the film into his old SLR, a Nikon because he has serious brand loyalty, giving the advance lever a crank to make sure the film has caught correctly, before closing the back of the camera and advancing the film the rest of the way so it’s ready for the first shot.

He already has his favorite lens on the camera, a 55mm that focuses well for macro shots, so he’s soon outside, locking the apartment door behind him. As he strolls down the streets, he snaps shots of anything that catches his fancy.

Here’s the thing about Bucky. He’s actually a fucking fantastic photographer. He knows it, his classmates all knew it, Natasha knows it, and the gallery owners know it. The sex is just insurance. Because here’s the thing about the art world. It’s fucking brutal.

So he does what he has to do. Flirts until he’s tested the waters enough, gets the guy in bed, and afterward, in the post-coital haze, proposes an arrangement: all the sex the guy wants for the duration of his art being shown. It’s not always the owner. Sometimes he has to compromise and go for an influential employee, because not every guy swings that way, as persuasive as Bucky is, and more importantly, Bucky is gay. Gayer than gay. So if the owner is a woman…well. But nine times out of ten, he can find  _ someone _ to get him where he wants to be. And that’s what matters, really.

It wouldn’t work if he weren’t already extremely good at what he does, which is how he reassures himself when he starts to question the validity of what he’s doing. It’s more a way of getting himself out there in the first place. After that, it’s up to the buyers.

And the buyers have started to take notice of him.

So now he carefully makes his way down the street, eyes constantly moving on the search for his next shot. He photographs diverse subjects. Cityscapes, nature if he gets the chance, people in the streets if they’ll let him first. He doesn’t really believe in the kind of street photography where one takes recognizable pictures of strangers without permission. He does, however, take the occasional shot of people from enough of a distance that he can’t see their faces. And then, of course, he often hires models. He’s known in part for his ethereal portraits with the city as his background, and often receives praise for the diverse range of models he uses, whether they’re hired or just a person in the street that catches his attention and will let him steal a couple minutes of their time for the sake of art.

Times like this, though, when he just takes a single roll of film out into the streets and photographs whatever catches his eye, these times are just for fun. An exercise in willpower and selectiveness, because he only gets 36 frames. Sometimes for an extra challenge, he takes out a medium format camera, an old TLR from the ‘60s, and tries to make do with only twelve shots total. It’s just a bonus that he likes the square format.

He’s so caught up in composing his picture of a lamppost that he doesn’t notice someone trying to get by him until they’re bumping into him, throwing his focus off. Luckily he has his finger off the shutter and doesn’t waste the shot, but he’s surprised by the sudden collision, to say the least. He turns around to apologize for being in the way, because even though he wasn’t he’s fucking polite, and…oh god.  _ Oh god. _

It’s Steve Rogers himself, looking as stunned as Bucky feels, and Bucky had seen pictures of him on the gallery’s website but fuck if he isn’t even hotter up close. It’s kind of unfair. His blond hair is pushed back off his face and his jaw could cut glass and goddamn, his dorky, thick rimmed glasses just make the situation even worse. And those shoulders…Bucky wants to suck bruises onto them, onto his collarbone, down his perfect chest.

Steve coughs and that’s when Bucky finally meets his eyes. So blue. Eyelashes. Complete sentences are not coming to Bucky until Steve quirks an eyebrow and Bucky blinks a few times, trying to clear his head.

“Sorry, man,” he manages to say, and his voice sounds remarkably steady to himself.

“No, no,” Steve says, “it was my fault.” He holds up his phone. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Well,” Bucky says smirking. This might be his shot. “For you, I think I can let it go.”

“Uhuh,” says Steve. He looks…unimpressed. “Well, um, sorry for taking up your time. I’m gonna—” He points and then continues walking.

Bucky stares after him, mouth slightly ajar. Did he do something wrong? He’s usually so good at this. He starts running through the short interaction, trying to figure out when his luck turned against him.

He can’t figure it out. He pouts a little, but then shrugs. Natasha can help with this. He knows she’ll find a way to track Steve down, and he also knows she has ways to help him seem more…enticing. They’ll meet again, and this time Bucky will be irresistible. There’ll be no way for Steve to say no.

Well. There’ll still be plenty of chance for Steve to say no. He’s a stupidly attractive man, as Bucky has discovered up close. He probably has people falling over themselves trying to get with him. It’s a risky business when it comes down to it, the things Bucky does. It doesn’t always work out. More often than not, sure, but this might be one of those times that he’s done for. But at least he can try.

Satisfied with his plan, he turns back to his lamppost, trying to frame the shot the way he had it before. He manages adequately, focuses precisely, and snaps the photo.

 

***

 

As soon as he gets home, he gathers together the necessary supplies for developing his film. He has a roll left over from the other day, so he figures he may as well do both at once in his double tank.

Sticking everything he needs into the changing bag, he reaches his hands into the sleeves and sets to work. Popping off the caps of the rolls of film, twisting them onto the spools, placing them in the tank, clicking on the lid. As he’s halfway through the process, trying to get the fiddly end of the second roll of film onto its spool, his phone rings.

“Not now, Natasha,” he grumbles, dropping the end and sighing. After all the times he’s been through this process, he now finds it simultaneously nerve-wracking, frustrating, and oddly meditative. He remembers how terrifying it was when he first started in high school, how his palms would sweat and make the film even harder to handle, and he smiles. He still lives in fear of fucking his film up, and he has a few times, but that fear has become background noise now. Finally getting the film to catch, he quickly gets it all the way into the spool and gets it into the tank.

Once everything is out of the bag, he checks his message from Natasha.

“James, where the fuck are you? Steve’s gonna be at the gallery at 6:00 PM tomorrow. Don’t ask me how I know, it’s safer that way. Call me when you can.”

He calls her back and laughs when she exclaims, “There you are!”

“I was tackling film. I got your message though.”

“So are you gonna be there? Do you have nice clothes to wear?”

“Probably somewhere, but I may need your help.”

“I have time now, I’ll come over.”

“Okay. I need to talk to you about Steve when you get here.”

“On my way.”

He sets the film aside, not wanting to develop it until he has a solid stretch of time uninterrupted. Easy way to fuck up film is to stop the process partway through.

Fifteen minutes later, while he’s digging through the fridge, she comes through the door. He’s still not quite clear on whether he gave her a key or whether she just suddenly had it one day, but either way it’s easier for her to be able to just let herself in, so he doesn’t worry about it.

“James!” she calls out. He moves to stand and bumps his head on the ceiling of the fridge.

“Ow, fuck!”

“What’s going on in there?” She rounds the corner and sighs when she sees him crouching and rubbing his head. “What did you do?”

“Stood up too fast and wasn’t paying attention. Did you know that fridges are very solid?”

“I did, actually.”

“All I have in here is half a jug of milk and some old oranges.”

“Who let you call yourself an adult?”

“Aha, but that’s where you’re wrong. I never claimed to be one. Other, misguided people refer to me as one sometimes but they are sorely mistaken.”

“You said you wanted to discuss Steve?”

“Oh! Yeah. Hey, let’s relocate to my room, I can worry about food later and order a pizza or something.”

“Nutritious.”

“Not an adult.”

Inside his room, he flings his closet open and sighs heavily at the mess of clothes inside. He turns to Natasha. “So I met Steve today.”

Her eyebrows fly up. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, it didn’t really work out.”

She cackles at that. “You went out dressed like that and expected him to fall all over you?”

“Hey, what’s wrong with this outfit?”

“Haven’t you had those jeans since freshman year? They’re completely worn out. And that shirt has spots of developer on it, don’t think I can’t tell.”

“These are my developing clothes. I knew I was going to do some developing today and I didn’t want to change.”

“Okay, but don’t be so surprised that he wasn’t impressed.”

“Yeah, yeah, so help me pick out something that  _ will _ impress him.”

Ten minutes later they (she) have settled on a dark blue button down, his black jeans (much newer than the one’s he’s currently wearing), and a black blazer.

“Thank you, Natasha, you’re a lifesaver.”

She smirks. “It’s a gift.”

“Well, I owe you.”

“You can pay me back by telling me all about the sex later on.”

Bucky turns bright red. “Natasha!”

“Yeah, you will though. See ya.”

He stares after her until he hears the front door shut, then shakes his head and folds the clothes for later. How she ended up his best friend is beyond him, but he’ll never stop being grateful he has her.

 

***

 

After he’s had his pizza that evening, he finally gets around to developing his film. He sets his timer and measures his developer out while he allows the film to soak for a minute in 68-degree water. He then dumps the water and pours in the developer. After the first minute of agitating it, he sets it aside and watches the timer. Another minute later, he agitates it for ten seconds and sets it aside again. He continues for the next nine minutes before switching the developer out for stop bath, returning the developer to its container. That only takes one minute before he’s moving onto the fixer, and then the fix remover. Last is his favorite, the photo flo, a soap-like mixture that smooths the surface of the film and resists water spots. He likes the texture it gives the film when he finally takes it out and runs his fingers down it to squeeze the excess water off it.

The best part of the process is this moment, when he gets to look at the tiny pictures and see, to his relief, that everything has been properly exposed and developed. It’s harder to tell if everything’s in focus until he starts making prints, but that’ll come later. For now he hangs it up to dry, puts everything back in its place, and washes the chemicals off his hands. His eyebrows fly up when he sees the time. It’s already 10:00, and he has shit to do tomorrow before he goes to try and track down Steve.

Before he falls asleep, he takes another look at the gallery website. He looks at the portrait of Steve under the section about the people who run the gallery and sighs. It’s even worse now knowing how much more attractive he is up close.

If he can’t win over Steve Rogers, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 

***

 

He wakes up later than he means to the next morning. Much later. So much later that he finds himself running around the house saying, “Shit shit shit shit shit” while gathering together his equipment and throwing on whatever clothes are easily within reach. No one is expecting him, but he needs to shoot another roll of film and make prints from yesterday’s one before he can leave for the gallery. It’s already 11:00 AM by the time he’s out the door and he huffs as he locks up behind him and steps out into the street.

Outside is pleasantly busy, people pushing past him on the sidewalk but not crowding him. He shoots off a roll of film in record time, meeting several lovely people as he does. One young woman in particular expresses a fascination with his camera. He snaps a shot of her and thanks her, turning to go.

“Hey, can I see it?” she asks.

He holds up the camera so she can see that there’s no screen on the back, smiling apologetically.

“Holy shit, is that a film camera? Do they even make those anymore?”

“They do,” he says, “but this one is vintage.”

“No way! Where do you get the film developed?”

“I do it at home, actually.”

“You can do that? Are you some kind of fancy professional or something?” She looks wholly impressed by this point.

He huffs out a laugh. “You could say that, I guess, but I first learned how in high school.”

“Wow,” she says, barely above a whisper. “You must be really talented.”

He blushes. This is verging a little too close to flirting for him, so before he can blurt out something stupid like “Um, I’m gay,” he instead says with an awkward laugh, “Thanks, um, well, I better get going.”

“See you around, maybe,” she says, grinning. He nods wordlessly and heads back down the sidewalk.

Back at home, he develops the roll of film as quickly as he can without fucking it up, then hangs it up to dry. Then he heads into the darkroom.

The darkroom has always been his sanctuary, ever since he was introduced to it. In here, he feels safe, removed from the world. He flicks on the safe lights and, yesterday’s film in hand, turns on the projector. He slides a strip of film out of the protective plastic he has it stored in and lines it up in the carrier. With the projector’s light on, he adjusts the head until the image is the right size and focuses it just so, then flicks it off and gets a test strip. He positions it in the frame under the projector and covers it with black cardboard, setting the timer for thirty seconds and moving the cardboard every five seconds until the light switches off. He drops it in the developer, rocking the tray for forty-five seconds before grabbing the slip of paper with his tongs and dropping it into the stop bath. That goes for five seconds before he puts it in the fixer for one minute. He gives it a quick rinse and then takes it outside to study it.

Ten seconds of exposure looks about right, so he goes back into the darkroom and grabs a full sheet of paper, setting it under the projector. He resets the timer and exposes the paper, then carries it over to the chemicals and repeats the developing process, this time fixing for two minutes and leaving it in the rinse water while he moves on to the next photo.

There’s a rhythm in making prints that’s unrivalled by any other experience, and as he breathes in the scent of the darkroom chemicals, he smiles to himself. This is why he does what he does. Because when it comes down to it, it’s the only thing that gives him this feeling, of contentment and completeness.

He checks the time every so often and when it gets close to when he should be getting ready, he fishes the last of his prints out of the water and sets them out to dry. Then he takes a deep breath and goes to his room to prepare.

He carefully puts on the outfit Natasha had picked out for him, smoothing the fabric and dusting imaginary lint off the sleeves. He spends longer than he probably should fiddling with his hair in the mirror, but he finally gets it to sit just like he wants it and grins at himself in the mirror before slipping on his best shoes and heading out the door.

 

***

 

He walks through the front door of the gallery and nods at the lady behind the front desk, then begins to wander through the building slowly, taking in each piece. He’s on a mission, but he also refuses to walk past great art without at least acknowledging its presence. He’s studying a vibrant painting filled with frenetic brushstrokes when he hears a familiar voice echoing down the halls.

It’s hard to make out the words, but he’s almost certain it’s Steve, and it sounds like he might be making a sale. Bucky inches in the direction of the sound, all while still carefully studying each piece. He doesn’t want to interrupt the conversation (it sounds important) so he just hovers in the general area and hopes it ends soon.

After about five minutes, during which time he makes it down the entire wall of paintings, he hears the conversation coming to a close. As a set of footsteps echo distantly, signalling one person leaving, he slips into the next room and takes a look around, zeroing in on the person in the corner. He’s facing away from Bucky, but the line of the shoulders is unmistakably Steve. Bucky shuffles the rest of the way into the room, letting his shoes make sound, soft but noticeable.

Steve turns around at the noise and nods in acknowledgement when he makes eye contact with Bucky. As Bucky looks around, he realizes that the pictures around him are photographs, bright and colorful. It’s not really Bucky’s speed, but it reminds him of why he’s here in the first place.

He looks back over and catches Steve’s eye again, shooting him his most winning smile. Steve smiles back, tightly, as if he’s not quite sure how to react. Oh well. Bucky can work with that.

Bucky steps in a bit closer, toward both Steve and an image of a vibrantly red bicycle. He studies it for a moment, then turns back to Steve, still smiling. “There are some really lovely pieces here.”

Steve presses his mouth into a firm line. “Thank you.”

Huh. Bucky’s not sure what to make of that response. “Hey, didn’t I run into you yesterday?” he says, attempting a subject change.

“Um…” says Steve.

“Yeah, I’m almost certain it was you.” He smiles. “I’d remember your face anywhere. I was taking pictures and we bumped into each other. Looked like you were in a hurry.”

“Oh!” says Steve, his stiff expression softening. “I think I remember you. I’m so sorry, I had to run to a meeting.”

“Hey, no problem, I totally get it.” Bucky shoots Steve a warm smile. He’s starting to feel hopeful that this might work out after all.

Steve furrows his brow, so slightly that Bucky would have missed it if he weren’t transfixed by Steve’s face. “You were taking pictures, weren’t you? Are you a photographer?”

Bucky grins. “I am, actually.” He holds out his hand. “Bucky Barnes. Well, James, but you can call me Bucky.”

Steve’s jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, but he grasps Bucky’s hand and gives it a firm shake. So, mixed signals then.

“So you run this place, right? I think I saw you on the website.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Steve frowns, looking down at the ground. Dropping his voice, as if he’s worried someone else will hear, he adds, “The Carters are friends of mine and Peggy Carter left me the gallery when she retired. I just hope I don’t screw it up.” He huffs out a laugh and Bucky quirks his mouth in a sympathetic smile.

“You’re doing great so far, if the current state is any indication,” he says, looking around the room.

Steve’s face goes flat except for a slight lift of his eyebrows. Bucky’s honestly not sure what that means. “Thanks,” Steve says, and it sounds genuine, so Bucky assumes his expression can’t be negative. Still, he’s getting the sense that if he wants to get Steve’s attention the way he’s intending to that he’s going to have to tread carefully. He feels a little bit like he’s trying to pet a standoffish animal.

If there’s one thing he can do well, it’s getting a read on a situation, especially when flirting is involved, and knowing when it’s time to step out for the time being. As much as he’d like to push things with Steve until things go his way, he can tell from what time he’s spent with the man that he doesn’t work that way. Sometimes it’s better to let things go until he has a new plan of attack.

So instead of shooting Steve the wickedly flirtatious grin he knows he has inside him, he gives him a soft smile, shuffles his feet as if he’s bashful, and says, “No problem, man. You should be proud.”

Bucky is a bit taken aback to see Steve blush—actually  _ blush _ —at that. He briefly wonders how far down it goes, allowing his eyes to dart down Steve’s chest before angling back up to meet his wide-eyed gaze. Steve holds his stare for a moment and Bucky takes the chance to make a show of sucking in his lower lip and worrying at it with his teeth. Steve looks away.

Interesting.

“Well,” says Bucky, “I’d better get going. Nice meeting you.” He gives Steve one last smile before turning on his heel and exiting the room. He waves to the woman at the front desk as he swings the front door open, and as soon as he’s on the sidewalk he’s reaching into his pocket to get his phone and dial Natasha. 

“It didn’t work out,” he says as soon as she picks up.

“Huh? Oh! With Steve, you mean?”

“Yeah. He didn’t go for it.”

“Were you direct with him?”

“What? Of course not, what do you take me for, an amateur?”

“I’m just saying, if all else fails.”

“I don’t want to scare him off.”

“Fine, be a wimp.”

“I’m not being a wimp, I’m being a goddamn professional.”

“I’ll come over and we’ll formulate a new plan. Just give me time to dig some stuff up first.”

He heaves out a breath. “Thank you, Nat, you’re a blessing.”

They hang up and he shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes his way home.

It’s 8:00 by the time he gets back and he figures he may as well get settled in for the night. Outside of fucking every gallery owner within reach and bitching alongside Natasha, he doesn’t have much of a social life, so turning in this early in the evening isn’t exactly uncommon for him. He digs through his drawers until he finds his favorite flannel pajama pants and a worn out, soft t-shirt. After he’s brushed his teeth (flossed too, because he has some self respect), he slips into bed for the night, grabbing his laptop so he can scroll through the web until he gets drowsy.

He’s not sure how he ends up on the gallery’s webpage, but soon enough he finds himself staring at the now-familiar image of Steve Rogers and his god biceps plastered across the about section.

It’s funny. Usually when he’s rejected, he gets bored soon after and can shrug it off easily enough. This time it’s just making him want it more. He thinks back to Steve’s pretty blush staining his otherwise porcelain cheeks and bringing out the blue in his crystalline eyes. He wants to see if he can make Steve’s whole body flush pink, with some coaxing. And he wants to hear all the pretty noises he’d make as Bucky touches him just the way he likes, the gasps and soft moans as he tries to hold back. Bucky already knows Steve is the type to hold back, but he’d pause and reach up to caress Steve’s face and say in a hushed whisper, “Please, Stevie, I wanna hear you.” He’d make it his new life goal to get Steve to let go, surrender himself to the way Bucky would make him feel.

Bucky gulps, feeling the familiar throb of a growing erection. He should not let himself think these things, but with the way Steve looked today in his blazer, the top few buttons of his shirt carelessly undone, it’s kind of difficult to resist. He bites down on his lower lip, takes a deep breath, and decides that fuck it, he might as well. Still gazing at the picture of Steve, he slips his hand in his boxers and grasps his cock. He feels a little ridiculous. It’s not even a dirty picture of Steve, just a well-framed portrait, but fuck if it doesn’t do things to him. He can only imagine how he’d feel seeing Steve undressed, flushed, and sprawled on his bed.

Bucky runs his thumb along the head of his dick, already leaking a little, and his breath hitches despite himself. He feels like a horny teenager getting off to thoughts of their crush, but at this point he can’t be bothered to give a shit. Not when Steve Rogers is out there somewhere, simultaneously being hot as sin and seeming so pure that he’s just begging for someone like Bucky to come along and corrupt him.

He lets his eyes flutter shut as he repeats the movement, a shiver running down his spine as he wonders how it would feel if it were Steve’s hand. His hands had looked large, yet surprisingly soft and delicate for being attached to someone as tall and muscular as Steve. Bucky cracks one eye open again to steal another glance at Steve’s face before closing it again and picturing how it would look when he comes. He whimpers slightly at that mental image as his cock jumps.

He begins to move his hand slowly along his length, gently, teasing himself a little bit. His cock is leaking more now and he catches some of the precome with his thumb, smearing it along his cock as lubrication. He gives himself a few harder pumps now, then backs off again, taking a few deep breaths. It feels good, so good, and he doesn’t want it to be over just yet. He’s always taken pride in his stamina, but right now he’s turned on enough that if he’s not careful it’ll end entirely too early.

Stupid, really, the notion that just a nonsexual image of Steve is enough to get him this achingly hard in a matter of minutes. It might actually be for the best that Steve hasn’t shown any interest, he muses, because if this is how worked up he gets just over the idea of Steve, he can only imagine how embarrassing it would be if he were to actually let Steve fuck him and inevitably come in two seconds flat. He hopes Steve would find it flattering, at least. Which is kind of a weird thing to hope, considering it may never happen in the first place. Even Bucky fails sometimes.

That thought is interrupted by the pressing need building between his legs. He gasps and continues, feeling the pressure mounting, coiling. Getting himself off hasn’t felt this good in a long time. He’s gotten kind of complacent, if he’s being honest with himself. Same porn, same moves, same impatience to get it over with so he can clean himself off and go to sleep. Meeting Steve is like a jolt, one that feels incredible.

He moves faster as he approaches his climax, gasping for air as sweat beads along his hairline. His breathing catches and he throws his head back into the pillows as he spills over into his hand.

Even as his eyes flutter shut, he reaches out and closes his laptop lid, huffing out a sigh. He lies there for a few minutes just catching his breath and letting the afterglow drift through him. The come starts to dry on his hand, though, feeling sticky and unpleasant as it cools, so he throws his computer off himself and goes to the bathroom to wash his hands.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he flips on the faucet and pauses. He looks like a mess. His pupils are still blown, his hair sticking up in the back from where it was rumpled by his pillows. He should feel at least a pang of guilt, he supposes, but he doesn’t. Instead he just feels the same pure want he did before, mellowed out a bit by his release but still strong.

He is so fucked.

 

***

 

He sleeps until 11:00 the next morning, waking with a groan. He blushes at the memory of what he’d done the night before. The guilt is a little stronger now, but not enough for him to entirely regret it. He turns on his phone to discover several texts from Natasha, all detailing what she thinks he should do next. The gist of it is that Steve will be at a fancy restaurant not far from Bucky’s house, a week from Saturday, and she thinks she and Bucky should get reservations for the same time Steve will be there.

“How the fuck do you know this stuff?” he texts her, and she sends him a winking emoji.

He spends the day lounging around, browsing through his latest prints and pointedly not picking out favorites he’d want to have put in the gallery if he can win Steve over.

Without really thinking about it, before he falls asleep that night he repeats what he did the night before, biting down on his fist as he comes to the thought of Steve inside him. He falls asleep half an hour later, and he catches himself wondering what it would be like to sleep in Steve’s arms.

 

***

 

Next Saturday rolls around and Bucky stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with his suit while Natasha lurks behind him, putting the finishing touches onto her makeup. She looks fabulous as always, but he feels like a wreck.

“You look fine,” she says, sensing his distress.

“My hair—”

“If you looked terrible you know I’d tell you. Just calm down, you look great and if he doesn’t see it, he doesn’t deserve you.”

He takes a deep, shaky breath and tries to do as she says. It sort of works and he swallows thickly before following her out the door.

He spots Steve almost as soon as they arrive. They’re seated close to Steve and the gentlemen he’s with, and Bucky can adequately take in the view of how nicely Steve fills out his navy suit jacket.

“Shut your mouth, you look like an idiot,” Natasha hisses, and he shakes himself and follows her the rest of the way to their table.

They take their seats and Bucky picks up his menu and fiddles with it without really taking it in as he watches Steve over the top of it instead.

“Hey James. James. Little obvious there, bud,” Natasha hisses over her own menu.

He licks his lips and flits his eyes back over to the options he has clutched in his hand. He squints as he tries to focus, but then Steve chuckles at something the other guy says and it’s such an unexpected and beautiful sound that Bucky drops his menu in frustration. “Nat, do you think I might be in a little too deep?”

She arches a single perfect eyebrow and glances over her shoulder to where Steve is sitting with his companion. “That depends on your definition, I guess.”

“I mean, like, usually when I do this, if the guy seems uninterested I move on to someone more available. But Steve...well, fuck, just look at him.”

“I’m looking.”

“Okay, don’t look for too long though, I don’t want them noticing us.”

Natasha turns back to him and gives him an appraising look. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, if he’s really not interested there’s not much I can do, you know? But I want to keep trying until I’m certain. I just worry I’ll end up wasting too much time on him.”

“What do you envision happening if he is interested?” Natasha asks softly.

Bucky hesitates. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead. There’s something about him that I think would make me feel guilty for just having a fling with him, but I haven’t seriously dated anyone since, god, sophomore year of college?”

“Do you want my advice?”

“Please.”

“Get to know him a little more, see if you really like him as much as you think you do, and take it from there. You’ve been doing really well for yourself with your photography, I think you can afford to take your time with this one.”

Bucky stares down at his hands, which fiddle with his napkin, while he thinks about what she has to say. She’s right, he realizes. If there’s any chance of Steve liking him, it could be a good thing in his life, and he doesn’t want to throw that away just because it’s taking too long to get his attention.

Halfway through dinner he excuses himself to go to the men’s room. On his way back over, as he passes Steve’s table he can’t help but turn his head to look over at him. He catches his eye and Steve squints for a moment before his eyebrows fly up.

“Hey! Aren’t you that guy who was at my gallery?”

Bucky mirrors Steve’s expression of surprise. “Um…”

“Yes, you are!”

Steve’s companion turns around in his seat to appraise Bucky, and Bucky appraises him back. He’s dark skinned and handsome and when he smiles at Bucky he has a gap between his front teeth that adds to the charm of his expression. Bucky suddenly feels threatened. That doesn’t usually happen.

“Hey,” says the guy, and his voice sounds slick, like he’s plotting something. “Would you and whoever you’re with like to join us?”

Steve’s eyes go wide for a moment before Bucky hears something that sounds distinctly like someone getting kicked under the table and his expression goes neutral again. “You know what, Sam, that’s a great idea,” he says, smiling at Bucky. It’s a small smile, but it doesn’t look too forced.

Bucky stands there blinking for a moment, before looking between the two seated men. “Oh, I don’t know if I should—”

“We’d like the company,” the other man—Sam—says.

“Well, um, okay, I’ll just go let my friend know and see if she feels up to it,” he says. He knows she’ll pounce on the opportunity. He probably won’t hear the end of it for the next week.

“Natasha,” he says as he nears their table.

“James,” she replies, turning to face him.

“Steve’s companion, uh, invited us to join them.”

“Oh really?” she says, already getting out of her seat and picking up her plate.

“You were listening in, weren’t you?” he sighs. Her hearing is impeccable.

“Maybe just a little. It looks like they’re letting the waiter know now,” she says, pointing.

They make the move over to Steve’s and Sam’s table and Bucky is psyching himself up for it to be awkward when he happens to look at Sam’s face right as Natasha slides into her seat.

Oh. So maybe he’s not a threat.

He looks instantly enamoured with Natasha, and what man wouldn’t be, unless he’s as gay as Bucky is. (And even then, Bucky can’t help but admire everything about her.) Bucky looks over to Steve and knows he sees it too, because he has this amused smirk on his face that Bucky thinks he’d like to kiss right off.

While Sam and Natasha are hitting it off, Bucky pokes at his food silently for a few minutes, sneaking glances at Steve. Steve seems to be doing the same thing. Finally, Steve looks up at Bucky and mumbles something.

“Huh?” says Bucky.

Steve clears his throat. “Sorry. So photography, huh?”

“Oh!” Bucky grins. This is his comfort zone. “Yeah. Since I was seven. Fell in love with it and never looked back.”

Steve nods. “That’s wonderful. I like to draw but decided to make a career in the art world in other ways. Being an artist is too competitive for me.”

“Yeah, I can understand that,” says Bucky. “I’ve managed, but it hasn’t been easy. Your gallery is beautiful though, you’re doing a great job.”

Steve huffs out a small laugh. “Thanks. When Peggy Carter left it to me when she retired, I was terrified I’d fu—” He freezes. “Um, mess it up. But so far it hasn’t completely crashed and burned, so I’m counting that as a success.”

“Natasha and I went to school together, that’s how we met, and we both almost quit so many times. The art world is brutal and so many people fail. But we supported each other and somehow we both got through it and honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of my career. And hers, too.”

“That’s wonderful,” Steve says. “It’s important to find someone like that.”

“James, are you being sappy over there?” Natasha says, kicking him under the table.

“Maybe,” he says, shooting her a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Yeah, well, I’ll kick your ass if you start telling soppy stories about us,” she says.

“I think we all know who would win that one,” he says, “so I better not.”

She nods approvingly and then turns back to her conversation with Sam and Bucky turns back to Steve.

“Natasha would be like the sister I never had if I didn’t already have sisters, if you know what I’m saying.”

Steve makes a face like he’s trying not to smile, and says, “Yeah, I think I do.”

Bucky takes a sip of his wine and tries not to think too hard about how fast he’s falling.

 

***

 

Bucky doesn’t see Steve for a week. Not until Natasha calls repeatedly while he’s trying to load film until he finally picks up.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Doing my job, jeez, what do you want?” His tone is playful and she laughs.

“Sam got me an invite to a fancy art party hosted by Tony Stark and he told me to bring you as my plus one!”

“Is that so?” he says, because he’s not sure how else to respond.

“ _ Steve _ will be there,” she says, exasperated.

“Ohhh.” It sinks in. “Oh!”

“Yeah, so look sharp. Saturday, eight o’clock PM.”

“That’s tomorrow, Nat.”

“Yeah, Sam apologized for the short notice.”

“Do you have a dress?”

“What kind of bullshit question is that? I always have a dress,” she says, and then she hangs up.

 

***

 

Bucky has been to a fair few parties like this one in his time in the art world, but never one on quite this level, and he’s a little overwhelmed from the moment he walks in. Tony Stark has gone all out, as per his reputation, and everything is stunning. And then his eyes land on Steve across the room, and everything else falls away.

Steve is in a navy suit and standing alone, shuffling his foot as if he’s mildly uncomfortable in the situation he’s in. His hair is smoothed over and looks so soft it’s all Bucky can do not to sprint across the room and run his fingers through it with no introduction. He’s holding a glass of champagne, and as Bucky stares he takes a sip of it, hand trembling slightly. Bucky swallows and turns away.

Natasha is standing off to the side with Sam when he looks over, leaning in close as he makes a joke and chuckling behind her hand. Bucky decides to wander around the room and wait until he’s gathered up the nerve to talk to Steve.

He runs into a few people he’s done business with before who recognize him and stop him to chat about his next planned projects. He also encounters a couple gallery owners he’s made deals with, who blush when they see him and turn away. Bucky huffs at that, even though he understands the sense of awkwardness.

After a few glasses of champagne, he slips into the restroom to relieve himself. He’s washing his hands when Steve walks in.

Bucky turns toward him to give him a casual greeting when he sees the look on Steve’s face and stops. “Hey pal, you alright?”

“Don’t like crowds.”

Bucky twists his mouth into a sympathetic half-smile. “Me neither. Natasha brought me here as her plus one and it’s fun, but it’s exhausting.”

“Just needed a break, I guess.”

“Well, I was just going, so you’ve got the place to yourself.”

“You don’t have to leave if you don’t—” Steve starts, and then he shakes his head.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, and his voice comes out as a soft croak.

Steve looks Bucky up and down and then meets his eyes, biting down on his lip. He looks more nervous than Bucky’s ever seen him, and Bucky finally thinks he might know what’s going on. He clenches his jaw for a second to steady himself. “Hey Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me if I’m reading too much into this.”

“I will.”

And then Bucky’s mouth is on Steve’s, his hands grasping at his hair, and his hair and lips are both as soft as they look and Bucky just wants to melt into him and never let go.

Steve hesitates for a long moment and Bucky starts to pull away. What if he was wrong? What if Steve is horribly uncomfortable with this and doesn’t want it? What if—?

That thought stops in its tracks when Steve pulls away long enough to growl, “Don’t stop,” and then reel Bucky back in.

Bucky gets lost quickly in the feeling of Steve’s mouth on his, his tongue slipping into his mouth briefly before darting back out again. Bucky tugs at Steve’s lower lip with his teeth and Steve sighs softly. He pulls away and starts to press kisses up and down the length of Steve’s neck, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Steve’s shoulder as Steve tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

The door swings open.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

It’s Sam.

“Why am I not surprised?” he says when Steve and Bucky both turn toward him, faces flushed.

“I, uh, we—” Steve says, and Sam just shakes his head and smirks.

“We’ll go,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s hand and leading him out of the room.

They mill around for a few minutes, but both of them are losing focus of what’s going on around them after what happened between them and they keep stealing furtive glances at each other.

“Wanna get out of here?” Bucky finally murmurs into Steve’s ear, and Steve looks enormously relieved as he nods.

They make their excuses and then head outside into the night air. “Your place or mine?” Steve says breathlessly, and Bucky shrugs.

“Where are you most comfortable?”

“My place is a mess,” Steve admits.

“Then we’ll go to mine.”

Steve nods, a shy smile taking over his face, and they head out.

 

***

 

By the time they make it to Bucky’s room, they’re both panting heavily, hands finding purchase anywhere and everywhere. Bucky’s not sure how it happened, but his shirt is unbuttoned, and then it’s missing. Steve’s is still, frustratingly, on, and Bucky goes to work remedying the situation. As he undoes Steve’s buttons, he mouths at his chest, and as he scrapes his teeth against the smooth, unblemished skin, Steve groans. The sound goes straight to Bucky’s dick, and he scrambles to pull the shirt off Steve and toss it to the ground.

As soon as the shirt situation is taken care of, Bucky latches onto the skin of Steve’s shoulder with his mouth, like he’s been dying to do ever since they first met on the street. Steve gasps and then takes Bucky’s jaw in his hand and turns his head so he can kiss him. “Bed. Now.”

The command is unexpected but Bucky is not complaining as he takes a few steps back and flops down onto the mattress. He lies back so he can slide his pants off and tosses them onto the floor. Steve’s eyes rake over his body and he licks his lips before pushing his own pants over his hips and tossing them aside. Bucky’s eyes are immediately drawn to Steve’s cock and his mouth waters. Steve takes a step closer and Bucky sits up and then leans in and, meeting Steve’s eye, grabs onto Steve’s hips and licks a stripe from the base to the tip of Steve’s cock. Steve shivers and threads his fingers into Bucky’s hair. Bucky does it again just to get that reaction out of Steve again, before smirking wickedly and then swallowing him down, throat working around the tip of Steve’s dick. Steve tightens his grip in Bucky’s hair and gasps out, “God, Buck,” before letting go of Bucky’s hair to cup his cheek and whisper again, softly, “God, Buck.”

Bucky smirks before diving back in, working his mouth and tongue around Steve, enveloping himself in the taste and scent and feel of  _ Steve. _ It’s his idea of heaven. It feels like this is what he was born to do, to suck Steve’s dick until his jaw aches and Steve’s voice is raw from crying out.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, I’m gonna—” Steve gasps, and Bucky pulls off with a pop. Steve smiles down at him softly. “I don’t wanna come just yet,” he explains breathlessly.

“Yeah?” Bucky says.

“Yeah.”

“Wanna fuck me until I can hardly walk tomorrow?” Bucky breathes, and even in the low light he can see Steve’s pupils dilate.

“Fuck yes.”

“Then come here and take me.”

Steve climbs onto the bed, crowding Bucky against the headboard and kissing down his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, his chest. “Do you have stuff?”

“Bedside table, top drawer.”

Steve leans over Bucky to open the drawer and root around in it for lube and a condom, finding them relatively quickly. He smiles shyly as he pours some of the lube onto his fingers and spreads it around. “Ready?”

“Just fucking get to it already.” Bucky shivers at the feeling of Steve’s cool index finger sliding into him. It’s not enough, he’s not sure anything will be, and when Steve’s other hand slides up his torso to gently pinch at Bucky’s nipple, he arches into the touch. “Fuck, Steve, don’t stop.”

Steve doesn’t, instead adding a second finger and crooking it slightly. Bucky gasps at the sensation and Steve chuckles. He slides his fingers in and out, gently, so gently, and Bucky just about can’t take it. “Steve, need—Ah! Need you in me…’

“Patience, Buck. You’re not ready yet.”

“I can take it, Steve, swear I can—” He cuts off with a hiss as Steve adds a third finger.

“You’re ready when I say you’re ready.” When Bucky doesn’t say anything, Steve says, “Got it?”

“Got it, Stevie,” Bucky breathes out. Steve nods his approval. He continues to work Bucky open, scissoring his fingers as he pumps them in and out of Bucky. Every so often he brushes that perfect spot just right and it’s all Bucky can do not to shout each time he does.

After what feels like an agonizing wait, Steve pulls his fingers out. Bucky whimpers at the loss, at the empty, hollow feeling he’s left with, but Steve shushes him and says, “Hang on, Bucky, I’ll get there.” As Bucky watches, Steve reaches for the condom, tears it open, rolls it on. He pours more lube into his hand and slicks up his cock, all while Bucky stares, glassy eyed and on the verge of drooling. There’s nothing about Steve that isn’t utterly gorgeous.

When Steve pushes into Bucky, slowly, almost tenderly, as if he’s afraid of hurting him (and granted, Steve is fucking huge, so it’s not completely unjustified), it’s like a goddamn revelation. Bucky loves sex. And he’s had a lot of it in his time. But now…he feels like he’s surrounded in, knows nothing but, Steve. And he’s never felt anything so damn good in his life. He squeezes his eyes shut as he feels Steve fill him up.

“Hey, Buck, look at me.”

Bucky reluctantly opens his eyes and sees Steve looking down at him, his pupils blown with arousal but a touch of concern in his expression.

“You okay, Buck?”

“Keep calling me that, I like it.” His voice comes out floaty and higher than he expected. Steve smirks, clearly taking that as a sign that Bucky is doing just great, and he pulls out almost all the way before slamming back into Bucky. Bucky bites his fist because otherwise he will  _ scream _ and wake the neighbors, and before Steve can get worried and ask again if he’s alright, he flings his arms around Steve’s neck and gasps,  _ “Don’t stop.” _

Steve leans in and latches his mouth onto Bucky’s neck, right below his ear. He sucks a mark into the skin and then whispers, “Not about to,” and then he’s moving, and  _ god _ Bucky never wants it to end. Every few thrusts, Steve hits Bucky’s prostate and Bucky  _ moans, _ tears pricking at the corners of his eyes because it’s so good, it’s too good and it’s not going to last much longer if this keeps up.

“Steve…Steve, m’gonna…m’gonna come…”

“Not yet, you’re not,” Steve says, and the commanding tone in his voice is like a jolt to Bucky, in the best way possible. Steve slows down considerably. His pace is  _ achingly _ slow, and Bucky whines. Steve coos and brushes a finger along Bucky’s lower lip, and Bucky sucks it into his mouth.

They continue at this pace as the minutes stretch on, and Bucky starts to feel his orgasm build again, slower than last time but even stronger, and this time when he gasps out what’s about to happen, Steve nods and murmurs, “Come for me, then, Buck, wanna see the pretty face you make when you—”

The end of his sentence is cut off by Bucky’s cry as his climax tears through him. Bucky distantly feels the sensation of his own come on his skin, but he’s mostly lost in the feeling of one of the strongest orgasms he’s ever had. Steve keeps moving for another few moments before he, too, is crying out and stilling. They both stay still for the span of a few breaths as they pant, before Steve pulls out and rolls over to lie next to Bucky. He removes his condom and tosses it in the wastebasket beside the bed.

“Shower?” Steve asks after they’ve caught their breath.

“Don’t wanna. But probably should.”

“C’mon.”

Steve helps Bucky up and Bucky shows Steve the way to the bathroom. Bucky leans against the counter while Steve turns on the water. Steve then crosses back over to guide Bucky into the shower, into the stream of warm water. They crowd in together, neither of them especially small men, and they’re pressed close together as Steve reaches for a bar of soap. He glides the soap over Bucky’s skin and slowly runs his hands over it, washing Bucky’s skin clean. Bucky takes the soap and does the same to Steve, eyes turned down. Steve catches Bucky’s chin in his hand and turns his face up to look at him. Bucky is momentarily stunned by the genuine affection he sees in Steve’s eyes.

“Um,” says Steve when the silence stretches on, and then he looks away, dropping his hand.

“Yes?”

“We probably should have discussed this before, but…”

“What is it, Steve?” Bucky asks gently.

“What exactly does this mean to you?”

Bucky just blinks.

Steve carries on. “Because I don’t usually do casual, and I mean, if you don’t want more than this then that’s fine and I’ll go, but I just want to know where we stand because—”

Bucky reaches up and squeezes Steve’s lips shut. Steve scowls. “Steve, I really like you. A lot. I was all bent out of shape thinking you didn’t like me back.”

“What? Of course I did.”

“Well you sure have a funny way of showing it,” Bucky says, smirking.

“It’s just that when I was a kid—” Steve starts, and then he shakes his head ruefully.

“Yeah, Steve? Go on.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “When I was a kid, I was really sick. Tiny, asthmatic, heart condition, multiple bouts of pneumonia, you name it. As I’m sure you can imagine, it didn’t really make me all that popular.”

The image of Steve as a small, sick child isn’t really computing, but Bucky nods his encouragement.

“I didn’t hit a real growth spurt until I was seventeen, and even then for a few years I was a beanpole. Then I finally started to fill out and look like I do now, but I wasn’t really used to people…paying attention to me. Still not, if I’m being honest. So when you did, at first I wasn’t sure if it was real, and then I wasn’t sure how to react.”

Bucky pulls Steve down into a tender kiss. “Are you better now?”

“The asthma and heart arrhythmia are still there, but I don’t catch stuff nearly as often anymore.”

Bucky pecks another kiss onto the tip of Steve’s nose. “Good.”

They finish up in the shower and towel each other off. They go back into Bucky’s room and Bucky roots around in his drawers trying to find some comfy clothes for Steve while Steve lounges on the bed. Steve cackles when Bucky throws the clothes at his head and puts them on while Bucky digs for a set of clothes for himself. Steve says something just as Bucky is pulling his shirt over his ears and Bucky tugs it on all the way before saying, “Huh?”

“I said, can I see some of your work?”

“Oh!” Here we go. Suddenly the guilt hits him. The guilt of what he was planning on doing. Somehow he feels guiltier about the gray morals of what he does when it comes to Steve. He’s not sure why. Best to examine that later. “Sure, I’d love to show you.”

He leads Steve to his studio where he has prints laid out, all his most recent work from the last week or so. “Some of these prints were kind of experimental, so they’re not the best quality, but if you’d like I can show you some of my favorites from—” He trails off when he realizes Steve is no longer listening, and turns around to see Steve holding up a print, eyes wide with wonder.

“Wow, you did this?”

“Um, yeah, Steve, this is all mine.”

Steve whistles. “You’re really fucking talented.”

Bucky finds himself blushing. That’s new. “I’m not, really, that one was just a lucky shot…”

And it was. It’s of his sister, only you can’t see her face, but she’s spinning, her skirt swirling, hair flying out behind her. The focus is soft and clear at the same time and the range of tones in black and white and gray is stunning. It’s one Bucky is especially proud of, and it was just by chance that he’d had his camera and that his sister had had a sudden whimsical moment..

“Bucky, trust me, it may have been a chance moment but you have to be really damn good to catch something like this at all. It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t know what to—”

Steve turns to him, bright-eyed. “How would you like to be shown in the gallery?”

Bucky feels sick to his stomach. “Oh, Steve, I don’t know if that’s—”

“It would bring you to the attention of a lot of really important people, Buck. Hell, who knows how successful you could be if people just saw these. And more importantly,” he continues, smirking now, “it would make me look good for discovering you.”

Bucky feels guilty as hell now, but he can’t say no to anything with Steve looking at him like that. “Okay.”

“Yes!” Steve says, and he carefully sets the print down before reeling Bucky into a huge hug. Bucky can’t help but smile then, even though he feels like a piece of shit.

“Hey,” says Steve, “have you ever considered fucking in a darkroom?”

“What the fuck Steve? There are caustic chemicals in there!”

“Okay, okay, just curious.”

They go back upstairs after a while, once Steve has had a chance to look over some more of Bucky’s work and exclaim once again that it’s “Fucking incredible, Bucky, I mean that.” Bucky puts on a random movie and curls into Steve’s side while they both pretend to watch it despite being hyper-aware of each other’s presence. About halfway through, Bucky’s phone goes off. “Can you pass that to me?” he asks, making grabby hands for it.

Steve doesn’t pass it to Bucky, instead looking down at the screen as all the blood drains from his face.

“Steve?”

Steve stands, which makes Bucky slide unceremoniously out of his lap. “What the fuck?” Steve snarls.

“W-what?”

Steve slams the phone into Bucky’s outstretched hand and Bucky’s stomach drops when he reads the message on the screen. It’s from Natasha.

_ So has your latest conquest agreed to show your work yet? ;) _

“Is that what this was about?”

“Steve, no! I mean, it was, but then—”

“No, you know what, I don’t want to hear it.” Steve storms out of the room, and Bucky can hear him make his way to the bedroom to gather his things. Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck goddamn son of a bitch.

Bucky catches Steve in the bedroom doorway, not meeting Bucky’s eye. “Steve, please.”

Steve looks up and the pain and anger in his eyes is overwhelming. “I still want to show your work, but only because you’re fucking talented and it would be a damn shame not to. But you will speak to a middleman, not to me. I don’t want to see or talk to you.”

Bucky doesn’t even know what to say to that, to the fact that even though Steve is hurt he still believes in Bucky’s talent and wants to showcase it. “I…Steve…”

“You don’t need to do something like this to get somewhere. I hope you know that.” With one last look, Steve brushes past Bucky and out the door.

Bucky grabs his phone and texts Natasha.

_ I fucked up. _

_ Dude buddy what happened??? _

He explains the entire situation in a giant wall of text.

_ Shit I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have sent that. It was a joke. _

_ He would have found out eventually, I think. _

_ Yeah but by then he might have known you better. _

Bucky shrugs even though no one can see.  _ Maybe. I should sleep. _

He turns off his phone and climbs into his bed. His bed that still smells like Steve. Fuck. He rolls back out and changes the sheets in the hopes that getting rid of Steve’s scent will get rid of thoughts of Steve, climbs back in, misses the smell of Steve, and gets back up to grab one of the pillowcases out of the pile of laundry. Then, and only then, he finally settles in and falls asleep.

 

***

 

_ Okay Nat you’re smarter than me. How do I fix this? _

_ Well you said he’ll be showing your work right? _

_ Yeah _

_ So use your work to apologize. _

_ What the fuck does that mean? _

She doesn’t answer, so after a minute Bucky sets down his phone and rubs his hands down his face. And then he starts to brainstorm.

Fifty minutes later he has a short list of possible ideas with all ideas but one scratched out beyond recognition. He grabs a stack of pieces of printer paper and starts to write.

Then he heads out with his camera. He catches a random stranger who seems to be loitering and has a brief word with her before handing her one of the pages and asking her to pose for him. He snaps a shot, tells her to keep it, and moves on.

When he’s shot as many shots as he needs, he fills the rest of the roll of film with snapshots and then heads home to develop.

The next day he makes the prints and nods in satisfaction as he lines them up in the right order.

And then it’s time to wait for the gallery to contact him.

 

***

 

The day of the opening, Bucky is nervous as fuck. He knows Steve hasn’t actually seen his work, has been too busy dealing with artists he actually wants to deal with, but he’s going to have to be there today. And he’ll see what Bucky’s made. And then Bucky will see how Steve reacts. He might throw up in the meantime.

He’s standing before his display when Steve walks in. Steve gives him a curt nod, barely looking at him, and Bucky decides to conveniently place himself off to the side so that Steve can look at his art without having to look at him.

Steve stops dead in his tracks as soon as he’s close enough to read the words.

There are fifteen photos, a different person in each one, and each person stands in a unique pose as they hold up a sign, each of which has one word on it. It forms a message that says:  _ You mean so much more to me than that. Please forgive me. I miss you. _

Steve turns around, slack jawed. “What does this…” he trails off.

“Steve, please listen to me for a minute, okay?”

Steve nods, though there’s confusion and apprehension in his eyes.

“Yes, what you think you saw is what I was planning on doing when I first met you.”

Steve’s stare hardens and he turns as if to leave.

“Steve, wait! When I first met you, that’s what I was going to do. Because it’s what I always do. But then I got to know you better, and I realized, this one’s different. I didn’t want to manipulate you or do anything that would make you want to leave. And then it got all messed up and I needed to apologize to you the only way I know how.”

Steve’s eyes soften and his shoulders sag. “Do you mean that? That you thought I was different?”

“Of course I mean it.”

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen. When I first found out.”

“Oh, hey, no, Steve, you had every right to get mad. It was always a really dick move of me to pull that on all those other guys. I shouldn’t have done it, but it’s what felt right at the time.”

“And what feels right now?”

Bucky smiles shyly, walks closer to Steve, places his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and asks a question with his eyes that he knows Steve will understand. “This, if you’ll let me.”

And then Steve’s mouth is on his and it’s everything Bucky was missing and more, so much more. And Bucky knows he’d take a thousand more apology photographs if it’ll mean he can do this every day.

“Yeah, Buck, I’ll let you,” Steve breathes, and Bucky just knows. He knows he’s already falling a little bit in love with this man.

And this time, he’ll do everything he can to keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me [on tumblr](http://hearteyesmonroe.tumblr.com/) and yell about these boys with me!!!


End file.
